


parallels

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m sure," he says, so quietly Martha almost doesn’t hear, before pointing at the sky with a single index finger. "No zeppelins. Not the right parallel."</p>
            </blockquote>





	parallels

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a anon on tumblr, who requested "The Doctor, Jack, and Martha experience a malfunction in the Tardis and are thrown into a parallel world, where Billie Piper is on set for Secret Diary of a Call Girl."
> 
> This is the closest I've _ever_ skated to RPF, for better or worse. ;)

They’re supposed to be back in Cardiff.

Jack has things to get back to; he’s got friends, a job, a team, a _life_. He hasn’t come out and said he’s not staying, but Martha can tell, from the way he keeps alternately glancing down at his funny not-a-watch and looking around at the TARDIS control room - slowly, lovingly, like he’s committing the place to memory.

She’s sort of doing the same thing.

The Doctor came back over an hour ago, and blew right past the both of them and into the corridor off the main room, smelling of smoke and ash and not saying a word. He’s only just come back, and now all she can smell on his suit and overcoat is the fresh-linen scent all her own clothes have, after they’ve gone through one of the ship’s ultra-efficient laundry cycles.

"Right!" he says brightly, leaping into action around the console. "Cardiff, yes? Jack’s got some business to attend to-"

He’s barely gotten through one revolution around the console before the ship pitches violently, throwing Jack from his spot on the jump seat and pitching Martha against the nearest coral strut.

At first, she figures that it’s just the TARDIS being the TARDIS. God knows none of her flights have ever been particularly _smooth_.

Then the Doctor swears colorfully in a language that, for whatever reason, the ship doesn’t translate - at least, Martha assumes that it’s a swear, judging by the thunderous look on his face and tone in his voice.

Not two seconds later, the ship  _shudder_ _s,_ and the lights go out.

"What the _hell_ was that?” Jack asks, as he fumbles for the edge of the jump seat to pull himself up off the floor. “We hit an intergalactic pothole?”

The Doctor is looking frantically between the dark interior of the TARDIS and the blank screen of the console monitor, eyes flitting back and forth around dimly lit space as if he’s searching for something. “No,” he breathes out, soft and weak and wondering. “It couldn’t be - or it _could_ -“

"Doctor, what are you-"

The Doctor is down the ramp and out the door before Jack can finish asking his question, moving at breakneck speed. Jack is right behind him, and Martha trails along after, feeling confused and frustrated.

When she makes it out of the TARDIS, she nearly runs straight into Jack, who in turn has stopped short a foot or so behind the Doctor.The first thing Martha realizes is that they’re in London, which is just bloody _typical_ , really. She can’t pick out exactly where - a posh residential street somewhere - but she can make out a familiar skyline not too far off, can see black London cabs driving past and a phone booth up on the corner.

The second thing she realizes is they’re on - well, _nearly_ on - a film set. The TARDIS is parked just a few yards away from a taped-off section of the road, ringed with men and women with headphones wrapped around their necks, standing under lights and behind cameras, holding microphones and squinting at bundles of scrawled-on paper.

On the other side of the road, at the center of all the hubbub, is a woman. A _beautiful_ woman, with long, curly blonde hair and big brown eyes, made even bigger by the heavy eye makeup she’s wearing.

A woman that the Doctor is staring at as if she’s the only person on the face of the planet.

"You said-" Jack starts, but the Doctor cuts him off.

"I did."

"But that’s-"

"No." The Doctor’s shoulders visibly slump. "No, it isn’t."

"Doctor." Jack lays a hand on the other man’s shoulder, but the Doctor doesn’t react. His eyes are still fixed on the blonde woman, tracking every move she makes - every flick of her delicate wrists, every toss of her elegantly curled hair, every brilliantly white smile. "Are you _sure?_ ”

"I’m sure," he says, so quietly Martha almost doesn’t hear, before pointing at the sky with a single index finger. "No zeppelins. Not the right parallel."

"But Doctor-"

"It’s _not her_ , Jack.” Finally, the Doctor turns to look at Jack -  _not at Martha, never at Martha -_ and she can just catch the sight of his profile, staring at the other man. “It’s never going to be her.”

Martha thought she’d seen this man broken, but the look on his face _now-_

It’s worse than watching him weep with the Master’s body in his arms.

Twenty-four hours later, she doesn’t hesitate to say _this is me, getting out_.


End file.
